


The Years Between

by Cloudnine101



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Barricades, F/M, Friendship/Love, Love, Love Confessions, Male-Female Friendship, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-15
Updated: 2014-12-15
Packaged: 2018-03-01 15:53:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,407
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2778959
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cloudnine101/pseuds/Cloudnine101
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>'Under any other circumstances, the girl would've been horrified; struck down with terror, at the sight of an officer. But that night, she was simply tired - and he wasn't anything like papa had said, anyhow.'</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Years Between

She was ten and he was twenty five, when they first met.

He stood on the side of the bridge, shining brilliantly in his uniform; a star, in a world of inky blackness. Beside him, the bundle of rags twitched. He looked down. "What are you doing there?"

"Waiting." 

"For what?" Dark eyes peered up at him, from below. Under any other circumstances, the girl would be horrified; struck down with terror, at the sight of an officer. But that night, she was simply tired - and he wasn't anything like papa had say, anyhow. Her father had described a machine, when he spoke of the law: chilling and dark and terrible. This was just a young man, with a stern face and a little stubble, and bags below his eyes.

"Anything." The man paused - and fished in his pocket for a coin. Pressing the metal into her palm, he left - forgetting, no doubt, even as he took the first few steps away. But Éponine never forgot. And she continued to wait.

·

She was twelve, and he was twenty seven.

Pick-pocketing, Éponine had always found, was a tricky business. It was all about reading people; knowing who to target, who had what money on them, how fast you could run to get away. Her parents could read 'clients' like books - in, out, done. But for her, it was a lot more difficult - especially trying not to do it in front of the law.

They seemed to be everywhere: tall, regal herons, snapping at the fish in the water below. Éponine was just a herring, in a world of birds - wherever she looked, there was one poking at her, prodding her. But, even though the herons scared her, they never came with the same faults that belied the fish - they didn't put the bruises on her arms, or the fear in her heart.

Yes, pick-pocketing was tough - but pilfering? All you had to do was reach out, and take what you wanted. Piece of pie. Piece of cake. Piece of...well, anything you wanted, really. She'd never dream of stealing from the law: that would be stupid, even for her (or so mama said). But stealing from a fruit stall? Easy. She could do it with her eyes closed.

Except when it went wrong.

·

"Stop that girl!"

'That girl' ran head-first into him in the market place, an apple clutched in her grubby fist. 

"Where did you get that from, girl?" She shook. His eyes were much colder, now. Age had changed Javert; there could be no doubt of it.

"From the stall, sir. I didn't take it, I swear!" He nodded once, but didn't let go of her wrist. His fingers dug in, hard - she gritted her teeth, fought down a whimper. 

"Stop that urchin!" A voice caused the girl to start; Javert's head snapped up. The sweaty street vendor pointed a finger at Éponine, ham-hock cheeks wobbling. 

Javert stopped. Paused.

Opened his mouth.

Released his grip.

Her eyes widened - and then, in a flurry of dirt and pale, pointed bones, the girl was gone.

Around the corner, she rubbed the red lines on her skin, and had to catch her breath.

·

She was fifteen, and he was thirty.

Éponine had grown into a young woman: all intelligent eyes, and wicked smiles. Still, though, the world seemed to see only 'Ponine - the child, who still needed their protection. As she peered at her reflection, she wondered if, one day, she'd simply grow into her features. They all seemed out of proportion; either bloated or hollow, with none of the curved loveliness the upper crust practically exuded.

Marius said it was about 'coming into your own' - did it just happen, one day? Did you suddenly wake up, with perfect hair and perfect clothes and a smile that made boys melt at your feet? Had it already happened, and she'd somehow missed it? Was it impossible for someone like her?

"You know, ever since that day at the market, I've been wondering about you." The girl jumped, turning her gaze for the river to Javert. He smiled, slightly; it looked good on him. Much better than a frown, at least.

"Éponine, correct?" She nodded, swallowing. "Don't worry; I'm not here to arrest you. You know my name already, don't you?"

"Yes. Doesn't everyone?"

"You'd be surprised." The water ran by beneath them, reflecting the lights from above.

"If you're here for apologies, I've got none to give." Éponine raised her head, eyes gleaming.

"Why would I want that? Besides, I've already said I won't hurt you. You have my word."

"Then why are you here?" His gloved hands rested on the top of his baton.

"The greatest of all sins...curiosity." The woman's lips twitched, and he smiled. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have duties to perform. Farewell, mademoiselle." Javert tipped his cap to her. Éponine gaped - and gaped - and gaped a little more, for good measure.

'Mademoiselle's were for ladies, with their fine dresses and their polite smiles and their respectable airs. They certainly weren't meant for street-girls, who hadn't seen the inside of a parlour in their lives, wore shoes with holes in them, and couldn't remember the last time they hadn't been cold.

Nobody had ever done anything like that to her, in her entire life. 

"I will see you here tomorrow?" She nodded, dumb-struck, as he sailed away: a beacon of light, receeding with every passing second.

Éponine almost called out to him. She didn't.

·

She was seventeen, and he was thirty two.

"So this boy - Marius, you said - you're in love with him?" She shrugged, a little - like she could brush away the question, through sheer force of will. 

"I don't know. I used to be...when I first met you, I was."

"What, when you were ten?" Éponine gently pushed his shoulder.

"When I first really met you. I was fifteen. Remember that?"

"How could I forget?" the inspector asked, voice soft, reminding her of velvet. The words sent ripples through her already turbulent mind - not that there were any facts behind it. She'd never be that obvious; even thinking about confessing sent a shiver down her spine.  
Other girls talked about it with pleasure; who they'd kissed, who they'd liked, who they'd smiled at. It was practically all they could see.

Stretching her body over the balustrade, Éponine gazed up at the moon, as though she could touch it.

"I don't know if I love Marius," was all she said, into the gently rolling water.

Javert didn't reply.

·

She was nineteen, and he was thirty four.

"Javert...are you in love with anyone?"

Instantly, she bit her tongue - because God in Heaven, how obvious could a person be? She may as well leap on top of a carriage, and yell-

"I don't know. Sometimes, I think..." He trailed off, as she glanced over at him, mercifully lifted from her thoughts.

"Who is she?" Javert straightened his coat - Éponine's eyes followed the gesture unconsciously.

"She's a very...remarkable woman." The man nodded, seemingly satisfied with his choice of adjective. The hole in Éponine's stomach grew.

"Very lucky, too." 

Even to her own ears, the chuckle fell flat. 

·

She was twenty, and he was thirty five.

"One day more before the storm."

The inspector twisted his hat in his hands; and for the life of her, Éponine couldn't work out why - didn't want to consider it, didn't want to watch _him_. 

"You can't go to the barricades."

For a moment, the world stood still.

"I'll do what I like," she said, slowly, carefully, rigidly - because who was he to say? Who was he to care?

"Not in this. Not for him."

"It's not because of him. I'm not a child. I can make my own choices."

"No, you can't. You don't know what you're about to do." Javert took a breath. "People are going to die, Éponine-"

"Is that what you see me as? A little girl?" Éponine drew herself up to her full height, face carefully blank. "Is that all I am to you?" The inspector hesitated - the woman nodded. "That's all I need to know."

Turning away, she walked towards the end of the bridge-

"Éponine! Éponine, wait!" Footsteps, advancing - she quickened her pace a little, as they came closer still, closer and closer, until-

A hand closed around her wrist.

"Éponine, wait-"

She spun around, yanking her arm back, and hissing: "Get away from me."  
Javert flinched back - and, just for a moment, Éponine recognised the look in his eyes.

Fear.

She pulled away, and she ran, and she didn't look back.  
It took a while for her to realise she wasn't being followed.

·

That night, she walked.

Éponine walked through the city; feeling the cobblestones beneath her boots, the wind whipping past, the grime on her skin.  
How could she have been so stupid? So ridiculous? So naive?

Éponine walked through the city; by the waterways and rivers, with the stars floating in their dark faces - and herself, hair tousled, clothes ill-fitting and worn, sullen and silent and entirely, completely unladylike. Uninteresting. Dull.

A child.

How could she have thought he'd seen anything else?

How could anyone see anything else?

He probably had someone waiting for him, at home: a woman, who would go with him to balls and parties and society events; who would promenade down the street alongside him, her hand in the crook of his elbow, smiling up at him; who would be the Cosette to his Marius, with a delicate face and blue doe-eyes and golden ringlets, and a voice like bells singing.

Of course he did. He was the grand Inspector Javert, with his fancy position, and his brass buttons, and his shining smile. Of course he had someone. Why wouldn't he?  
And now, what was left to Éponine?

A boy from the past, with his books and his smile and his soft, kind words. But that's all they ever were: a kindness. When she'd been with Javert, it had felt like...something else.  
But it hadn't been, really. She'd been wrong.

Perhaps she could learn to love Marius again. Perhaps she'd never stopped, really.

Perhaps, if she looked at him hard enough, and for long enough, all of his imperfections would fall away - and she'd be left with the Marius she'd thought she'd known, before everything had changed. Perhaps she could be content with the one-sided love; perhaps wishing was good enough. Perhaps wishing was all she deserved. Perhaps she could teach herself to smile at him - to be content in the safe cocoon of unrequited adoration, untempered by experience and memory and anguish.

Perhaps she could learn to love him, once more. 

Perhaps.

Éponine walked through the city, and gritted her teeth, and ignored the wetness on her cheeks. 

·

When she returned to the barricades, pale-faced and empty, nobody so much as glanced up.

Not even Marius.

·

That night, she dreamed of a bridge; thick, blue shadows; and a rich voice, whispering her name: "Éponine."

She woke crying.

·

There were cries - yells - bangs - and Marius - smiling at her - beautiful, wonderful Marius - safe Marius - and she couldn't let him go - not now, not ever - and-

The bullet flew.

Éponine pulled - with all of her strength.

Marius swore, stumbling over his feet, dislodging her. Almost in slow motion, her arms flew out.

Another gun was fired.

"No!"

Flashing, blazing red-

 

Someone broke out of the ranks of the law; a man, wearing a long, blue coat, throwing himself towards the girl, knocking her to the ground. Her chest heaved, as they impacted - and there was pain, 

and 

light

and-

"Éponine, are you hurt?" She shook her head, twice - and for all of her experience, all of her instincts, she hadn't seen it coming. She hadn't seen this coming. None of this. None of it. None. 

The ache was distracting, though.

His hand moved her hair away from her forehead - searching for injuries, no doubt. The inspector always had been thorough; always so neat, so precise, so orderly-

"You saved my life."

Javert's hand stopped. 

"Yes. I did."

"Why?" she asked - in a breath, breathless, air fast-fading, falling away, away, away-

_You should hate me._

_I hate you._

_I can't hate you._

"Because...because you matter." Slowly, her hands reached out, resting on his cheekbones - and it's alright, it's all alright, and he's here, and she isn't alone - she's never been - and-

"Javert," she said - and then the hands drew away from her temple, staring at the blood-stained glove - and Eponine stared, too, because that couldn't mean what she thought it meant - it couldn't, it couldn't - and she tried again - but the word came out slowly, like she was speaking through glass, and she couldn't draw breath - and somewhere, she could hear Marius, always Marius, a song, cajoling, calling, enticing, even in its heady mockery, now that there is nothing-

"'Ponine..." 

And it was all so heavy - so thick, drenched in wine and sweat and blood - and it was all so warm, she could lie in it - and perhaps, perhaps, it all wouldn't be so bad, after all-  
"Stay with me, Éponine. You're going to be alright. Everything will be fine." And people were buzzing around - Éponine could see them faintly, pale shadows through the gauze, outlines in the darkness - and perhaps that wasn't so bad, either. And there are voices, in the background - saying:

"Inspector..." A young man, a hand on his shoulders. "They're going to start firing, sir. There's no point moving her. We have to-"

"Go to Hell," someone else snarled - and could it be Javert? It was all so far away, now - and his arms were all she could feel, pinning her down - and even they were growing fainter- so faint - she could just fly away, if he let her-

And blackness, pooling-

"Speak to me, Éponine. If...if you...if you love me, speak. Speak, Éponine! Speak!"

 

Gold-

 

Sounds weren't forming, and nothing was coming, and everything was dark - dark around the edges, curling and rising, until Javert was just a figure - and she tried to call out to him, tried to scream his name, and only heard:

 

Gold-

 

A flash of teeth, and warm hands, 

and whiskey bottles 

and stale breath 

and stolen kisses

and revolutions and bravery 

and _him_. 

 

 

"Éponine...please, Éponine...please...God, save her...I...I...please..." 

 

 

And, somewhere behind her eyelids, she

 

 

 

caught sight of

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

stars.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
